


To the Worst of Times

by Eggmancustard



Category: Sherlock (TV), johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03 Fix-It, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-10 07:28:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2016288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eggmancustard/pseuds/Eggmancustard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The baby is born and John leaves the hospital to visit Sherlock. Not an hour later, he gets a text from Mycroft: Mary and the baby are missing. Now, Sherlock and John have only days to decipher Moriarty's cryptic messages and find a hidden location. Little do they know what they'll find when they get there...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Did you miss me?”

 

The message flooded television screens everywhere. A blissful country turned to panic as the dreaded question was repeated over and over again, never stopping; Never ending.

 

“Did you miss me?”

 

Mycroft’s skin crawled as he heard Moriarty’s voice coming from the screen. He looked out his car window to see his brother’s plane coming in for a landing and Mary and John walking briskly toward the tarmac, their coats flapping in the wind. He breathed a sigh of relief for his brother, which was short lived as his eyes returned to the screen in front of him. Moriarty was back. The message abruptly switched off as soon as the landing gear made contact with the pavement, and Mycroft leaned back in his seat, stunned.

 

Sherlock stepped out of the plane slowly, tentatively, and looked down. The man he thought he'd never see again just five minutes ago stood before him at the foot of the steps, Mary a little ways off. He gazed at John for a moment; beautiful John. His short blonde hair was wisping in the wind, the rays from the distant sunset dancing over the tips of each strand, almost making a halo. His eyes were hopeful, expecting, and his hands were balling in and out of fists as he waited for his friend to descend the steps. 

 

Sherlock made his way down each step carefully, locking eyes with his best friend, resisting the urge to run. It really was tempting. He would say his heart was beating, but that wouldn't be accurate; his heart was quaking in his chest. It was a sensation he had never felt before, and he hoped he'd never feel it again. 

 

When he finally reached the bottom, he barely had time to blink before a pair of arms were around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. It was desperate and clinging, and he could feel John's small hands clutching the back of his coat. He returned the hug cautiously and heard John's hoarse whisper in his ear.

 

"Don't you ever pull anything like that again, Sherlock, do you understand?" He breathed. Sherlock nodded and John tightened his grasp. A wave of electricity ran down Sherlock's spine as he remembered that only five minutes ago, he was to be torn apart from this man forever. He wished the hug could last forever, that he could never let go. Because he wouldn't. Not if he had the choice.

 

They pulled away reluctantly, and Sherlock could see tears in the doctor's eyes as he unconsciously wiped his own away. Sherlock gave a small smile, and John beamed back at him before they both turned and walked back toward the car. 

 

"William. Your first name is William." John said as they walked, giving a bit of a smile that was immediately returned by the detective. 

 

"Not as bad as Hamish" Sherlock replied, and soon they were both giggling. They were halfway back to Mycroft's car when Sherlock asked,

 

"So, who needs me now?"

 

"Moriarty," answered John, taking a deep breath and dipping his chin before continuing, "He's back"

 

Sherlock looked over in surprise, but before he could say anything, his phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket, finding a video message. The detective raised his eyebrows and motioned for John to stop, and, holding the phone where both could see the screen, he pressed play.

 

Sherlock swallowed hard when Moriarty’s face appeared on his phone. His black eyes glistened, and with a smile that resembled a hyena's and a giggle that could've belonged to a schoolgirl, Moriarty began the message.

 

“Did you miss me? I thought you would. It’s okay now, Sherlock. I’m back, and we’re going to have such fun together now. Just like old times, yeah?”

 

He gave a wink and made a kissy face at the camera before waving goodbye. Then the screen was black.

 

Sherlock looked over at John, whose were eyes a bit wider than usual and whose mouth was slightly agape. He could see out of the corner of his eye that Mycroft and Mary were watching them with questioning looks, and he gave a curt nod to his friend. John swallowed, nodding back, and Sherlock could see by the stone in his face and the gleam in his eye that it was just the two of them against the world.

 

The game was on.


	2. Chapter 2

Moran entered the room quietly, treading silently over the carpeted floor and closing the door with a small "click". Moran had seen the room many times before, but now it looked colder, darker. It hadn't been lived in for a year.

 

The only furniture was a bed along the far wall and two armchairs which sat in front of a small window, which, at the moment, had drapes drawn across it. The room was nearly pitch black except for a small bit of light coming from the slit in the middle of the drapes. The small beam of light had cast itself upon a small, white hand which lay upon the arm of one of the chairs, the only hint that the room was occupied. Moran silently walked over to, and sat in, the adjacent armchair, waiting for the man to speak.

 

"You're coming along," he said in a sing-songy voice that was so familiar, yet so other-worldly to Moran. The voice of Jim Moriarty.

 

"It worked. He's staying." Moran whispered.

 

"I know" Moriarty answered lazily. He stretched his neck, smiling at every little "crack", then faced away from Moran, swinging his legs over the arm of his chair and leaning his head back so the light fell right across his face, catching an almost-black eye and making it glint.

 

"It's only a matter of time now." he said in that same voice. His eyes swiveled back to look at his partner. "How long?"

 

"Not much longer. Two months, maybe." answered Moran.

 

"Good," Jim said, and started to giggle, "This is going to be so much fun" 

 

__________________________________________________________________________________

 

It had been a month and a half since Sherlock's four-minute exile, and there was still no word on Moriarty. The detective now sat on his couch in a dressing gown and pyjamas exploring his mind palace, frustrated. It was like waiting for a fuse on a bomb to slowly make its way to the base. Moriarty would strike- it was only a matter of time- but when? He was a ticking time-bomb, and the longer he kept ticking, the bigger the explosion would be. 

 

Sherlock opened his eyes.

 

"I want some tea, John" Sherlock called loudly.. He didn't receive an answer and, after some thought, realized that he hadn't expected to. He hadn't yet gotten used to Johnless flat and doubted he ever would, as it had been nearly a year and he was still talking to him absentmindedly. He missed John. He wanted him back. John.

 

He sighed deeply and got up to make tea. he sighed again when he discovered that there was no milk. John always got the milk. He rummaged through the cupboards until he found some old half-and-half packets next to some other little things they'd collected from their take-away boxes. He dumped them into his cup and took it back to the couch, placing it on the coffee table. He then picked up his phone and composed a new message.

 

How's Mary? -SH

 

Fine! Should be discharged today. - JW

 

Good -SH

 

Sherlock sighed once more and leaned back, his tea forgotten on the table. The baby had been born exactly 3 days, 14 hours, and 13 minutes ago. John had gone into a panic, Mycroft had driven them to the hospital, and Sherlock hadn’t been informed until after the fact. Now, Sherlock thought, it was official. He wasn’t needed; wasn’t wanted. Forgotten. John would slowly slip out of his life and he would be alone again, only this time, it would be different. This time, he wouldn’t just be alone; he’d be lonely. 

 

That was his last thought before he entered his mind palace once more, sinking into a lonely, lucid state.

 

__________________________________________________________________________________

 

"Who's that, darling?" Asked Mary from her hospital bed, a newborn in her arms. the baby was sleeping peacefully and Mary looked tired, but healthy. She smiled loosely at her husband as she asked the question.

 

"Sherlock" John answered from his chair next to the bed. Mary had given birth three days ago and was recovering from a particularly long and tiring labour. She would hopefully be discharged today, and John was glad. he'd spent three days in that bloody chair, and his shoulder ached.

 

"You should visit him, dear. It'd be good for you." She said cheerily, returning her attention to her baby, who seemed to be waking up to be fed. It cooed softly and Mary lifted the child to her breast, smiling softly as she drank. John looked at her, surprised.

 

"Mary, I can't leave!" John exclaimed incredulously.

 

"Oh, relax, I'm fine. Go spend time with your friend."

 

John looked skeptical and Mary just raised her eyebrows.

 

"He misses you," She whispered, and John opened his mouth before shutting it again. He supposed that it would be good for him, and he knew how Sherlock got, so he accepted defeat and gave a curt nod before grabbing his keys and giving both Mary and baby kisses goodbye before leaving the room and hailing a cab to Baker Street.

 

__________________________________________________________________________________

 

Sherlock didn't notice that John had entered the room until he received a sharp flick on the forehead and opening his eyes to see a tired-looking John looking down on him. He gave a lazy smile at his friend before taking a seat in his own chair.

 

"Thought I'd visit," said John, giving another small smile as Sherlock slowly straightened up to a seated position. 

 

"I'm glad." Sherlock whispered. They sat in an uncomfortable silence for a moment before John spoke. 

 

"Any news on Moriarty, then?" He asked, almost hopeful for something to happen. Not knowing was killing him, and he could only imagine what it was doing to Sherlock.

 

"No," Sherlock groaned, "nothing."

 

"What d'you think he'll do?" John asked, getting up to make some tea. He eyed the cold cup on the coffee table and picked it up on his way past, bringing it to the sink and dumping the contents.

 

"I don't know" Sherlock sighed as John sat down, discovering just in time that there was no milk. They were silent until both Sherlock and John's phone's started vibrating. John got to his first, and a look of horror spread across his face. Sherlock's momentary confusion was put to rest after he checked his messages. It was from Mycroft.

 

Mary and baby have disappeared from hospital. An investigation has already begun -MH

 

Sherlock looked up the now panicked John. He was still sitting, his phone still in hand and the look of horror still present on his face. His whole body was shaking uncontrollably, and Sherlock thought he would combust what with how flushed his forehead was. The vein on his temple was clearly visible.

 

"We need to go. We need to go to the hospital and find out where they've gone," he said, keeping surprisingly calm, which, Sherlock knew, wasn’t done without effort. Then, after barely a moment’s hesitation, he sprung from his armchair and made a beeline for the door. His hand was on the knob when Sherlock stopped him in his tracks.

 

"John!" He cried, still seated. His gaze was still on his phone.

 

"What?" John answered annoyedly.

"I have a new message"


	3. Chapter 3

John and Sherlock now sat on the couch side by side, Sherlock with his phone held up between them. His hand was hesitant, yet steady, as he reached up to tap the play button with his index finger. He immediately saw Jim Moriarty’s cold, icy, black eyes and heard his soft, unsettling voice.

 

“Hullooo Sherlock, dear!” exclaimed Moriarty with wide eyes and a crooked, ear to ear smile that sent chills down both men’s spines. A light was shone on his face only, leaving the background dark, giving them no hint of his location. Moriarty paused before continuing, “No need to worry, Mary and I are just having some tea; catching up. The new baby really is adorable.”

 

John’s jaw clenched at these words and his eyes fell shut, already filling with salty, angry tears which he was trying so desperately to hold back. Sherlock looked over, feeling powerless. He couldn’t mend the pain. He couldn’t fix it. He wanted so much to hold John, to comfort him. He didn’t, though. He couldn’t. He returned his eyes to the phone screen as Moriarty winked and continued on with his dramatic speech.

 

I can’t wait to see you, Sherlock. It shan’t be long,” He sang softly, “The game is on”

 

And he was gone. The screen went black, but John kept his blank stare directly on it, wishing- hoping- that there would be more. There wasn’t. John gave up, slumping back on the couch and Sherlock closed the message, laying the phone down and turning to John. He laid a soft hand on the doctor’s shoulder and hesitated before speaking.

 

“John…” he breathed.

 

The doctor took a short intake of breath and closed his eyes, trying once more to hold back the tears which were fighting their way out of their ducts. He attempted speech, but only produced small clicking noises in the back of his throat, his hands clenched into tight fists. Sherlock’s hand stayed on his shoulder the whole time, and and after a while, he slowly opened his eyes.

 

"What the FUCK am I going to do?" he started, beginning in a whisper and exploding mid-way into a deafening yell. He jumped up from the couch and kicked his armchair, sending the quilt hanging over the back flying to the floor and almost tipping the whole thing over entirely. He started frantically pacing the flat and rubbing his fingers through his hair, his outburst far from over. Sherlock rose from the couch slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements.

 

"John, listen to me-"

 

"What are we going to do?" The doctor said in a growling whisper, trying to keep from shouting again. He continued pacing until Sherlock answered,

 

"John... There's nothing-" Sherlock struggled to find words that wouldn't rile John up further. "I think the best course of action right now is to wait."

 

John stopped in his tracks, not believing his ears. Sherlock braced himself for what was to come as his friend performed a perfect about-face and looked at him. 

 

“Wait?” he whispered. “WAIT? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR BLOODY MIND?”

 

“John, there’s nothing we can-”

 

The doctor took two long strides so he was inches away from Sherlock, the veins in his neck and forehead visible through flushed skin. He was still crying. 

 

“You are just going to sit here and bloody wait for my wife and child to be-” He swallowed, unable to say the last part. Sherlock bowed his head, frowning, before slowly nodding. 

 

“YOU’RE JUST GOING TO LET IT HAPPEN! YOU DON’T CARE DO YOU?”

 

Sherlock’s face flooded with hurt at the words, and he continued to avoid John’s gaze.

 

“John, please-”

 

“YOU BLOODY PSYCHOPATH! YOU- YOU MACHINE!”

 

There. That word. That sentence. That’s when he had gone too far, and he knew it. He knew it as soon as the words had escaped his lips. Sherlock’s head dipped even lower and he closed his eyes, the look of utter shame on his face. John realized what he’d done.

 

“Sherlock, no.” John said guiltily. He hadn’t meant to say that. He hadn’t. Surely Sherlock knew that? Surely he understood? Oh God, what had he done?

 

“Sherlock, I didn’t mean-”

 

“I know, John.” he whispered, opening his eyes and looking up. His eyes were red with forbidden tears and he looked so vulnerable to John. Sherlock swallowed, trying to regain the usual look of cold indifference, but failing. He then quietly spoke,

 

“John, I made a vow to protect you and your family. A vow I’ve already demonstrated once that I intend to keep, and I have no fear in demonstrating that fact again. I hope you know that.” 

 

John just bowed his head and nodded, looking up at Sherlock. The redness in his eyes was gone, but he knew that the pain was not. He had hit below the belt, and he felt bloody awful. Sherlock is willing to give his life for him multiple times, and he dared to think that he didn’t care. He was an idiot. 

 

“Sherlock, I’m sorry. You know I’m sorry. Please.” he whispered. It wasn’t enough. He knew it wasn’t enough, but it was the best he could do. Sherlock just gave a small, fake smile and patted his arm.

 

“It’s alright, John. You were upset.” he replied quietly. It wasn’t alright. Damnit, it wasn’t alright at all, but all John could do was nod and clear his throat.

 

“I’ll stay here tonight, then,” He said, though the end of the sentence was turned up ever so slightly as if it was a question. Sherlock gave a faint smile and John swallowed, nodding again and turning to leave the room. His shuffling footsteps could be heard ascending the steps to his old room, leaving Sherlock alone once again in the sitting room. He glided over to the couch and plopped down, entering his mind palace.

 

______________________________________________________________________________

 

The door to the archives was at the very end of the corridor in the west wing of his mind palace. It creaked open (should definitely have that oiled) and Sherlock entered, walking through and finding the “People” section, opening the “enemies” cabinet, and searching under ‘M’ until he found it. Moriarty’s file. He held it in his hands and opened it, flipping through until a screen appeared, hanging in the air in front of Sherlock. He raised his hand and pressed play, watching the message he had received over and over, trying to find something. He needed to help John. He rewound it once more and was about to press play when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to face them

 

“I’m busy, John.” he said

 

“Doesn’t matter. It’s not like you actually care.” He said, frowning. His voice was cruel and sad, and it made Sherlock nearly cower in front of him. He felt a twinge of guilt before answering.

 

“I do care, John. I care about you so much.” he whispered. John laughed.

 

“You don’t. You’re a machine, Sherlock. Machine”

 

Sherlock shut his eyes, not wanting to look at John anymore, ashamed. He turned, about to press play-

 

“MACHINE”

 

“Hulloooo Sherlock, dear!”

 

“MACHINE”

 

Pressing pause-

 

“MACHINE”

 

“GO AWAY!” he screamed, turning on his heel and grabbing his head with both hands, tugging at the curls painfully. He didn’t care. He needed it to stop. Stop. Stop. STOP.

 

He opened his eyes, rubbing them and sighing. He noted that he was perspiring heavily and heaved himself off the couch and made his way to the bathroom, noticing, on his way, that the clock said 12:32 AM. He’d been in his mind palace for quite some time, then. 

 

He peeled off his clothes, damp from sweat, and folded them neatly, placing them carefully on the sink. He went to the shower and turned it on, putting the setting to scalding hot and then stepping in front of the mirror again, looking at himself. His eyes roamed his body slowly and finally settled on his face, which wore sad eyes and a frown.

 

Psychopath. Machine. The words swam through his head, tormenting him, John’s voice uttering them over and over.

 

He knew John hadn’t meant to say them. He didn’t mean them… Did he? The words burned through his heart. Maybe John really did think he didn’t care. Maybe he had meant what he said. But why? How could John not see? How could he not see how much Sherlock cared for him? How much he loved him? How much he has sacrificed? Surely John has seen that. Surely. He ran his hands through his hair and turned from the mirror, stepping into the burning hot shower and letting the water wash away the sweat that covered his body, and the tears that covered his face.


	4. Chapter 4

John awoke slowly from a restless sleep, forgetting, for a second, the previous night’s transgressions. It was short-lived. There was a dull ache in his head and his eyes seemed to be glued shut. Slowly, he ripped them open and looked at the clock- 7:48. Early. Too early. His old bed felt foreign to him, but comfortable, and the light streaming through the curtain was illuminating the floral pattern on the duvet, the bright flowers a stark contrast to his current mood. He heard shuffling downstairs, and decided he’d better get up.

 

He was soon sitting on the edge of the bed, slowly placing his feet on the carpet and rising to a standing position, skipping a shower and making his way down the stairs. He felt groggy and unbelievably tired, like he had barely slept, though he knew that, by some miracle, he had. Reaching the bottom and walking into the kitchen, he was greeted by an equally tired Sherlock sitting at the table in his usual chair, his hands in the prayer position.

 

“Morning,” John mumbled as he went straight for the kettle. Sherlock didn’t answer, but stared straight ahead, apparently lost in his mind palace. John was used to this, and he just went about his business as usual and ignored the raven-haired detective. He had finished his tea and was nibbling on his last bit of toast before Sherlock finally snapped out of it, blinking rapidly and turning his head to look at John

 

“Oh, hello.” he said, a bit surprised to see the small man suddenly in front of him. John gave him a small nod of acknowledgment and picked up the paper, pretending not to notice when Sherlock snagged his last bit of toast. The news was dull as usual, but he had finally distracted himself in the Sports section when Sherlock spoke.

 

“He’s playing a game with us. It’s a puzzle.” he said. John laid down his paper annoyedly, wishing that moment of sweet, distracted bliss had lasted just a bit longer, and gave Sherlock a look that said, ‘get on with it’. Sherlock immediately obeyed, reaching into his pocket and producing his phone. He opened the video message that he’s received earlier that morning, 

laid his phone down on the table, face up, and slid it across the table to John, who looked at it with raised eyebrows before picking it up and pressing the play button. A few moments of black nothingness, and then,

 

“Morning,” sang Moriarty with a slight pout on his face that almost immediately became a smile. The airy voice made John’s skin crawl as the message continued.

 

“You know, Sherly dear, I’d love to have tea with you this Saturday. No, I insist upon it. I want to play with you. We can play pretend! I’ll be the first mate if you’ll be the captain!”

 

He sang this with a toothy grin before removing all expression from his face almost instantaneously and regaining that Moriarty pout before continuing, “Or maybe a board game. ‘Cluedo’? No… wouldn’t be fair. Oh, I know. ‘Life’! Yes, let’s play the game of ‘Life’. My favorite.”

 

The wink he gave was quick and then the screen was black again. John’s stomach felt sick. He was in utter shock at what was happening in his life, wondering if it was ever going to end. Maybe it was just a horrible dream. Maybe it was. Maybe he’d wake up tomorrow in that uncomfortable hospital chair and his wife will smile at him and hand him his baby girl and everything would be okay and happy and wonderful again. Maybe. 

 

Probably not.

 

“So, what’s this game exactly?” John asked, resting his elbows on the table and rubbing his temples. He suddenly felt like he had a bad hangover and his stomach felt sick. It seemed like every time he encountered Moriarty, his stomach felt the same kind of queasy uneasiness that was unmatched by anything else. It was a feeling unique to Moriarty.

 

“Isn’t it obvious, John?” 

 

The glare Sherlock received answered his question, and he evaluated.

 

“We need to find out where the are- where he’s keeping them- by tea-time this saturday.” he said.

 

“And?” John asked, his eyebrows raised.

 

“We go there and…” Sherlock waved his hands in front of him, a grave countenance displayed on his features, “play the game of life.” 

 

John’s jaw clenched and he visibly swallowed. The game of life. Lovely. 

 

Tea. More tea. He shot up and walked to the stove, though as soon as he reached for the kettle, Sherlock cleared his throat, obviously trying to get his attention. When he turned he saw that the fridge was now open, though Sherlock looked as though he hadn’t moved, and there were six bottles of beer handsomely displayed next to a freshly cut human foot. John looked at them gratefully and forgot about the kettle, instead heading for the fridge and grabbing a beer. When he sat down, Sherlock had regained the pose he’d been in earlier, except now his eyes were closed.

 

“I’ll be the first mate if you’ll be the captain,” he repeated thoughtfully. “What do you suppose that means?”

 

“You wanted to be a pirate when you were little, right?” John asked, taking a sip of beer. Sherlock’s head shot up.

 

“Who told you that?”

 

“Mycroft”

 

“Git” Sherlock mumbled with disgust. 

 

“Course, it could be sexual” John said, raising his eyebrows as he took a sip of beer. Sherlock’s uncomfortable expression said it all and John tried repeatedly to hide his amusement. He often liked to raise the subject of sex with Sherlock, because it always seemed to rub him the wrong way. It was John’s way of picking on him; a bit of innocent fun he liked to have every now and again. 

 

And it was fun to see Sherlock uncomfortable.

 

“What on earth do you mean?” Sherlock asked incredulously. John just leaned back in his chair, enjoying himself, and answered,

 

“Moriarty. I’d venture to say he kind of fancies you in a sick kind of way. Could be an innuendo.” 

 

“Don’t be absurd, John.” he mumbled, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. 

 

“I didn’t mean to alarm you, Sherlock.” John said with a smirk that he had given up trying to hide. Sherlock frowned and knitted his brows, a look of defiance that reminded John of a child spread across his face.

 

“Sex doesn’t alarm me, John,” he said after a while

 

“If you say so,” he answered, and got up to clear his dishes.

 

______________________________________________________________________________

 

Moriarty and Moran sat across from each other once more in the familiar room, each in their own armchair by the window. The drapes were pulled open now, though, and the grey room was now yellow with the setting sun. There they sat, Moriarty curled up in his chair like a cat and Moran holding the small infant, who was blissfully unaware of her captivity and currently cooing softly. 

 

“Having fun yet?” Moran asked, lips curling into a smile.

 

“Loads” Moriarty hummed, not returning the smile, but instead looking out the window onto London.

 

“Did you set it up?” he asked lazily.

 

“Yes,” Moran replied softly, “Everything’s in order. It’s ready.”

 

“Good. Would hate to disappoint the party guests, you know.” 

 

At this Moriarty did smile, but it was cold and heartless. Soon he was giggling like a schoolgirl, and Moran could see fire flashing in his eyes. When he had calmed once again, he looked over at the child in Moran’s arms with a frown. Reaching over, he stroked the infant’s forehead slowly and sang out in a soft voice,

 

“It’s raining, It’s pouring… Sherlock is boring…”


	5. Chapter 5

The next few days in 221B were grueling. Sherlock was getting less sleep than usual and John was going through beer at an alarming rate, considering the fact that he hardly ever drank. Sherlock diligently replaced it, though, sometimes wondering if he really should, but replacing it all the same. The men barely talked, communicating mostly through looks and one word sentences. They were both completely on edge. They hadn’t received another message since Monday morning.

 

Now it was Thursday night. Sherlock had been doing all he could to figure out the message, often staying in his mind palace for hours on end and having to be woken up to eat. he just couldn’t do it. He couldn’t figure out Moriarty’s location from a few subtextual sentences. Impossible. He needed more, and when we wasn’t getting more, he got continually more frustrated.

 

John wasn’t doing any much of a better job. he knew he shouldn’t be drinking so much. He’d end up like his sister. Although, he also knew that his life shouldn’t be the complete fucking mess it was now. He was riddled with emotions, and some of them were really starting to piss him off. 

 

He went through the last few days in his head. It was mostly a blur. He hadn’t left the flat, and Sherlock had surprisingly bought some groceries every day or so. His time had been spent reading, sleeping, watching crap telly, and thinking. He didn’t think he could take it much longer. 

 

The pair now sat in the living room of 221B, Sherlock in his usual ‘thinking’ pose on the couch, stretched out with his fingers steepled and resting just under his chin, and John in his armchair reading a novel and drinking tea. It was mid-afternoon and the extent of their communication had been an exchange of ‘Good Morning’s before retreating into their usual silence. They stayed like this until they heard a faint buzz. 

 

A pause. Both heads shot up simultaneously, just like they had every time Sherlock received a text in the last three days. Their gazes met and Sherlock scrambled up with none of his usual grace to retrieve his phone from the coffee table. He grabbed the mobile and hastily opened his messages, shooting John a look that said everything. The doctor’s eyes widened and he scrambled to the couch to sit next to Sherlock. As soon as John was seated next to him, the detective took a deep breath and pressed ‘play’.

 

“Long time, no see” Moriarty said with a sad face. “I hope you’re not mad at me.” John’s jaw clenched and Sherlock looked over at him. The look on his face was of the utmost hatred and contempt. Sherlock placed a soft hand on his friend’s knee and returned his gaze to the screen. John didn’t seem to notice.

 

“I can’t wait for our play-date, Sherlock! Perhaps you can show me some of your baby pictures. I’d love to see some of those.” 

 

He let out a low chuckle and his lips curled into a sinister smile.

 

“Aargh,” he growled, impersonating a pirate before giving a small air kiss and retreating into darkness. John leaned back on the couch, sinking into the plus fabric and ignoring the hand on his knee. This was going nowhere. How in the hell were they going to figure this out from a few fucked up video messages? 

 

“Pirates,” Sherlock breathed.

 

“What?”

 

“Pirates. Something to do with pirates.”

 

“Oh, right.” John had all but given up at this point he just closed his eyes and sunk further into the couch, not having the energy to do anything else. He rubbed his face and let out a tired sigh and dropped his hands to his sides, defeated. Sherlock looked at him with furrowed brows and a slight, sympathetic frown.

 

“John,” he whispered, squeezing his knee lightly, “I’m trying.”

 

The doctor opened his eyes at this and saw a sad-looking Sherlock staring back at him. The man looked truly apologetic, and John immediately felt guilty. He knew Sherlock was trying. He’d had to wake the man up from his mind palace three times because he had forgotten to eat! He was forever thankful to Sherlock, and he knew he was trying his best. He sighed, knowing he hadn’t been showing his gratitude lately.

 

“I know you are, Sherlock,” he said firmly, “I know.”

 

He put his hand over the detective’s, which was now resting just above his knee, and squeezed it. Giving a small, fake smile, he got up and mumbled something about taking a nap, leaving the room as fast as he could before the detective could see the tears welling in his eyes. 

 

Too late.

 

______________________________________________________________________________

 

That night was spent in his mind palace, piecing the videos together and trying to make some sense of them. It was morning before he finally had his breakthrough, and it came in the form of a text from none other than Jim Moriarty. Not a video this time, but a text. It was only a sentence, but it gave Sherlock all the information he needed.

 

My playground is your playground -JM


	6. Chapter 6

“John!”

Someone was shouting at him. Who? What time is it? 

“JOHN!”

He was shaken awake and strong arms pulled him into a seated position in his bed. He groggily opened his eyes and realized it was morning, looking over at the clock and seeing that it was 9:47. He then directed his attention to the man yelling his name.

“John! Wake up!”

It was Sherlock, of course. His eyes were wide and he looked panicked. 

“Sh’lock, what is it?” he croaked, rubbing his eyes and clambering out of bed. The detective was already dressed and showered and was waiting quite impatiently for John to get up.

“I’ve got it! I know where they are!”

John’s body snapped awake at those words and he jumped up.

“Where?”

“Bedfordshire” Sherlock answered without hesitation. 

“Bedfordshire?” John answered incredulously. He had expected someplace in London, not in a small town. What on earth where they doing there? Sherlock, seeming to read his mind, answered,

“Yes, John. Do keep up. I’ll need to phone my parents, of course, because we’ll need accommodations-”

“What?” 

“John, really! You went to my parent’s house for Christmas a few months ago and you don’t even remember where they live?”

“To be fair, I was busy selling the British Government to an evil businessman!” John retorted. Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed his hand, dragging him down the stairs and finally sitting him down on the couch when they reached the living room.

“Stay here, I’ll go phone mum, and then I’ll explain.”

“Oh dear, but I have a hair appointment!” John gasped sarcastically. Why the fuck would he leave the flat at a time like this? Sherlock rolled his eyes again and picked up his phone, running to his bedroom to talk to his parents in privacy. John sat in the living room, confused and anxious. Ten minutes later, the detective was emerging from his bedroom looking annoyed.

“Alright, I’ve told her we will be there this afternoon. They don’t know why we are coming, I just told them we have some business to attend to. You’ll have to humor her, of course, she’ll want to spend time with us…” He said, adding disgust to his last few words. John just furrowed his brows.

“So, where are they in Bedfordshire, then?”

“That’s what I’m getting to.” Sherlock said, sitting down in his armchair. “All of the messages mentioned pirates and playing games, yes? That’s because he’s keeping them in my childhood playground. It’s where Mycroft and I would play pirates.”

John looked surprised, then confused once again. A playground? The thought of young Sherlock dressed as a pirate and making young Mycroft walk the plank entered his mind. If it hadn’t have been such a dire situation, he would have chuckled.

“How could he keep them at a playground? Isn’t that kind of… out in the open?”

“This one was located in a small park a few miles from my house. It was essentially a treehouse that resembled a pirate ship, but it was long forgotten by the time I found it. It’s rather far into the woods and there is no doubt in my mind that it’s still abandoned. Clever little place to lure me to. If it hadn’t been for this morning’s text, I wouldn’t have thought of it at all.”

John decided he didn’t care about the text. All he cared about was that he knew where Mary was- or would be- and he could save her. He could have his family back. Thoughts raced through his mind and his stomach was doing gymnastics. After an extremely painful week, he’d have his family back again. He was almost giddy when he asked,

“So when do we leave, then?” 

“I say we pack and leave immediately. I told mother that we’d arrive in the afternoon sometime and the train ride is approximately and hour and fifteen minutes. It is 10:30 now, and she’ll undoubtedly want to spend family time together.”

John just nodded slowly, processing the new information as Sherlock got up and headed to his bedroom once more, stuffing his mobile in his pocket.

“I’m going to pack now. You should do the same” the detective said, hurrying into his bedroom after grabbing a suitcase from the coat closet. John was still in a daze, so when he didn’t answer, Sherlock turned on his heel.

“Do hurry, John! The game is on!”

John, thinking that this expression was far from appropriate at this moment, snapped out of it and hurried upstairs to pack a small overnight bag. When he got downstairs, he was greeted by Sherlock in the doorway, already dressed in his large, black coat. The doctor nodded curtly at him and they both made their way down the staircase and out on the street, headed for the train station with feelings of eagerness and dread in the pit of their stomachs.  
______________________________________________________________________________

“Sherlock, dear!” Mrs. Holmes exclaimed as her son stepped uncomfortably into his house with John close behind. John gave a small smile and a nod at the cheery, plump woman and Sherlock just glided past her, placing his large coat on the rack along with his scarf and then doing the same with John’s coat, which was handed to him. His mother walked up to him and gave him a kiss on the cheek, turning his face a bright red, and then called for his father.

“Siger! Your son is here!”

“Yes, dear” was his reply and he emerged from the kitchen, biscuit in hand. He gave a small wave and a smile, his mouth full of biscuit, and John smiled half-heartedly back. Mrs. Holmes just scoffed and immediately grabbed the pastry out of her husband’s hands and grumbled about how he would ruin his blood sugar, retreating into the kitchen to toss it away.

He gave Sherlock a pat on the shoulder and motioned to them to follow, still chewing on his biscuit, and showed them to their rooms. John got the guest room and Sherlock got his old room, which was across the corridor. After he’d set his bag on the bed, John quickly followed Sherlock into his room, curious about what it would look like.

When John first saw Sherlock’s old bedroom, he was stunned. It looked absolutely nothing like a teenager’s room. It was large, with wallpaper to match the rest of the house, and right in the middle was a twin bed. A desk was pushed up against the wall, and on top of it was an array of lab equipment. He seemed to have an entire set- beakers, erlenmeyer flasks, test tubes, scales- and right in the middle was a microscope that was obviously far less advanced than the Brunel SP500 on his kitchen table. On the adjacent wall was a large bookshelf filled with books of every subject- animals, plants, insects, medicine, and even subjects like baking, beekeeping and woodworking. As John admired his large collection of books, however, he didn’t see even one about the solar system. 

“So he was always this mad, then.” John thought to himself, amused. After he stood in the doorway for a few minutes, taking in Sherlock’s bedroom, the detective coughed awkwardly.

 

“Mother has prepared afternoon tea” he said, and John nodded.

“Right…” He answered, and followed the detective down the corridor and into the large kitchen The kitchen table was adorned with more pastries and breads than John thought possible, and right in the middle of it all was a small tray with a teapot and cups. He took a seat at the table and Sherlock sat next to him, his parents adjacent. 

The entire hour was filled with very dull, yet rather amusing, conversation that was mostly led by Mrs. Holmes, (please, call my Violet), while the men mostly nodded in agreement and Siger took the opportunity to polish off most of the biscuits. When John, trying desperately to escape, mentioned a football match that was to be on soon, he and Siger left for the living room and Sherlock was left alone with his mother.

“It’s so nice to see you, dear. You never come to visit, you know.” She said as she cleared off the table and headed for the sink, dishes in hand. 

“Yes, I’m quite aware.” her son answered annoyedly. 

When the dishes were all cleaned and in a drying rack, Violet sat across from Sherlock at the table, smiling. Sherlock just gave her a cold look that she was apparently used to, as she wasn’t phased as she carried on the conversation.

“You two are happy, then?” She asked excitedly, smiling lovingly at her son who now had furrowed brows.

“What do you mean?” he asked suspiciously

“You and John! I take it you two love-birds are happy, yes?”

Sherlock furrowed his brows even more, wondering why his mother had made such an assumption.

“Actually, mother, we are not together. We are here on business and John is happily married.”

He’d said this coldly and a bit more defensively than he’d meant to, realizing a minute later that his face was flushed. His mother looked at him with sad eyes, reaching across the table and taking his hand before he could move it away.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” She said apologetically. He wasn’t sure what she was apologizing for until she continued,

“I see the way you look at him.”

Sherlock was about to retort, but he found himself unable to speak. Unsure of which emotion to express, he decided on anger. He gave her a bitter look and stood up.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d stay out of my business, thank you.” he growled, spinning around and stomping to his room, trying desperately to hold back a stinging wave of tears.


	7. Chapter 7

The next day was the worst of them all. the park where Sherlock’s old playground resided was only twenty minutes away, so all they could do was wait at the house until it was time, all the while pretending everything was completely normal. Sherlock seemed to be doing a pretty good job. John was a mess.

He had been awoken at 9:00 AM by Violet and immediately served a full english breakfast. He was barely able to eat, but, with Sherlock picking off his plate, this was able to go unnoticed by the bustling mother. He was trying desperately to put on a happy face for Sherlock’s parents, and he hoped they had bought it.

After breakfast, Sherlock and John both retreated to Sherlock’s room to discuss the plans for the day ahead. They were both extremely nervous about it, as failing could cost them not only the lives of their loved ones, but their own lives as well. They knew they had to tread lightly, but neither really knew what to expect when they got there. They were playing a game of luck, of chance. The game of life.

They sat in Sherlock’s room, John on the bed reading one of the various Walt Whitman collections he had found on Sherlock's bookshelf and the detective at his desk examining various samples he’d found around the house. They were both trying to pass the time the best they could, but both were inexplicably bored. The clock was ticking as slowly as ever, mocking the two men as they lay in wait for the hour to strike 3:00, which was when they were to leave. After half an hour of silence, John spoke.

“How do you suppose we go about this, then?” he asked, unable to get the fear of the unknown out of his head. Sherlock carefully took his current slide from the microscope and placed a new one on it, settling his eyes in the eyepiece and sighing.

“The only thing we can do,” he said, adjusting the magnification settings, “is play along. He obviously has some sort of game in mind.”

John nodded. Obviously. That was all it was to Moriarty; a game. The sick feeling in john’s stomach grew and he swallowed. The last time they'd played a game with Moriarty, he'd been strapped with Semtex.

“Should we call Lestrade?” he inquired. He knew that Scotland Yard was in London and that Bedfordshire probably had a perfectly capable police force, but this was a delicate matter, and he trusted Lestrade. He also knew that Sherlock did as well, even if he vehemently denied it.

“Yes,” he agreed, much to John’s surprise, “I do think that’s wise. They can stay back and help if we get into trouble.”

“Why can’t they just help us to start with?” John asked, annoyed at his friend’s lack of faith in law enforcement. Sherlock sighed again and switched off his microscope, aggravated with its poor quality compared to the one he had at home, and leaned back in his chair. 

“Moriarty doesn’t work that way, John. You know that.”

“Right” he mumbled, nodding. Of course he was right. Sherlock was always right. He looked at the clock and sighed. 11:46 AM. This was going to be a long day.

______________________________________________________________________________

 

John eventually finished his book and left the room, wandering the house until he found himself watching telly with Siger in the living room. He was watching an old Monty Python marathon and chuckling to himself while John sat next to him, trying and somewhat succeeding to get into it. He even found himself laughing once or twice. 

Sherlock, on the other hand, entered his mind palace as soon as John had left and aimlessly explored it, organizing and deleting things as he went along. 

They both continued like this until Violet called them to lunch. 

______________________________________________________________________________

When they all entered the kitchen, the table was set beautifully. A bowl of fruit lie in the center of the table and next to it was a large tray of cucumber sandwiches. There was also a small tray of biscuits off to the side and a large pitcher of lemonade next to it. John sat down first, followed by Sherlock who sat next to him. Siger sat across from them, immediately grabbing a biscuit, and Violet bustled around the kitchen, encouraging them to eat. John filled his plate as Siger spoke.

“So, what kind of business are you to on around here?” he inquired curiously. John looked at Sherlock, who answered cooley,

“Top secret. Sorry.”

Siger nodded, disappointed and returned to his plate before Violet came up behind Sherlock and placed her hands on his shoulders, squeezing tightly and smiling warmly

“My Sherlock,” she said excitedly, “going ‘round, doing important ‘top secret’ things! I’m so proud!”

Sherlock scowled and leaned forward, releasing himself from her grasp.

“Funny how things change, mother, isn’t it?” he said bitterly, and she pretended not to hear him as she sat down to fill her plate.

The following conversation was, like most with Violet Holmes, tedious. They sat and listened to her endless stories and anti-climactic jokes, desperately killing the time until the clock finally struck 3:00.

The game was on.

______________________________________________________________________________

They met Lestrade in Mowsbury park after hastily leaving the house at precisely 2:58 PM.

“I’ve got my best team out here,” Lestrade assured John as they walked down the sidewalk in Sherlock’s wake, “everything will be fine.”

He clapped the doctor on the shoulder and gave a slight squeeze before heading back to his car. John didn’t feel any better about the situation, though, and his stomach was in knots. He followed Sherlock silently as he led them through the park and finally to the edge of a wood near a playground. 

“It’s just in here,” the detective murmured, motioning to the forest, and John followed him into the trees. 

They walked for about five minutes before coming to a small clearing with a large treehouse set atop three trees. It resembled, just as Sherlock described, a pirate ship, and had steep, wooden steps leading to the top. Sitting at the foot of these steps was Jim Moriarty.

“Do come in,” he sang. 

Sherlock and John could do nothing but obey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I do apologize for the lateness of this chapter. I've been completely bogged for the past two weeks and I hope you lovelies will forgive me! Anyway, here it is and you should expect more regular updates from now on. We are nearing our conclusion, my pretties!
> 
> And, yes, I know that I use the phrase, "the game is on" way too much in this story and I should stop right now. I'm starting a twelve step program next week.
> 
> Enjoy! REVIEW 
> 
> PLEASE


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, it's probably a well known fact that I suck, because I promised y'all regular updates and I've already broken my promise...
> 
> It seems I've forgotten how utterly deplorable school is.
> 
> Anyway, this morning I shall gift you with TWO chapters! Yay :) 
> 
> Enjoy!

Sherlock and John quietly climbed the small, rickety steps up to the old treehouse, followed closely by Moriarty. They ducked through the little entrance that was clearly meant for a child and were greeted by a small, dark, dusty room that smelled of mothballs and rotting wood. A quaint table sporting a floral tablecloth and set for tea was centered in the room, a dim, bare bulb hanging over it. The floor creaked as they stepped inside.

As soon as they had entered, john immediately looked around, hoping to see his family. When they were nowhere in sight, his heart have a tiny jolt in his chest. He turned to look at Sherlock, but was stopped when an arm snaked around his waist and he was suddenly falling. His peripheral vision caught the sight of a syringe exiting his neck and he hit the floor with a soft grunt, descending into darkness.

______________________________________________________________________________

Blink. 

Groan.

He came to slowly, blinking and finding it very difficult to breath. He tried to bring his hand to his aching forehead only to find that it was bound. In fact, his whole body was tied to the back of a chair. He glanced behind him, seeing a mess of black curls and realizing that Sherlock was in the same position. They sat back to back, and John wiggled his fingers, hoping to make contact with Sherlock’s hand. When they did, Sherlock responded by locking their middle fingers firmly together, squeezing lightly. They stayed like this, in complete silence, until Moriarty entered.

“Oh good! We’re up!” he cooed, sauntering into the room and taking a seat at the table, which was now missing two chairs. He then nonchalantly poured himself a cup of tea, sipping and relaxing into his chair and looking at the two men with an amused smile. Sherlock glared back, earning a chuckle.

“No need to be nasty, Sherlock.” Moriarty scolded, setting down his teacup and crossing his legs in front of him, “You wouldn’t want to leave a bad first impression on my assistant. I’ve been dying to introduce you, you know.”

He then gestured toward a darkened corner of the room, where nothing could be seen but pitch-black darkness. Not until footsteps started to echo from it did they realize that someone else was in the room.

As Moran stepped into the light, John’s eyes widened with surprise. He almost thought he was hallucinating, but he knew the drugs had worn off. He knew this was very real.

“Hello, John,” she said with the delicate voice that was so familiar to him. The sweet, kind voice that had recited wedding vows to him. The voice he fell in love with. He heard it, but could not believe it.

“M- Mary?” he croaked, suddenly finding breathing to be nearly impossible. He couldn’t believe it. he wouldn’t believe it.

“Poor Johnny boy…” Moriarty mocked, earning a sharp breath from Sherlock. John tightened his fingers.

“Now the party’s really started, hasn’t it?” exclaimed Moriarty with enthusiasm. As he said it, he drew a gun from his jacket pocket and handed it to Mary, who immediately cocked it.

“I really only invited dear Sherly to this little get-together, I’m afraid.” he said sadly as Mary pointed the gun right between her husband’s eyes, “Should’ve RSVP’d”

Sherlock, unable to see what was going on behind him, squirmed in his seat, desperate to free himself from his bonds. It was no use. John closed his eyes, unable to look at the woman he had loved, and awaited his fate, grabbing another of Sherlock’s long fingers and holding on.

Silence. Nothing was happening. A minute went by. Two. Slowly, John stole a glance at the woman in front of him. 

Mary stood with her arms outstretched, gun in her trembling hand. Her brow was knitted in distress and her bottom lip quivered ever so slightly. John then looked at Moriarty, impatience spreading across his face. 

“Do it!” he barked with an angry fire in his eyes. She looked over at him and then back at John, trying desperately to decide what to do. There was fear in her eyes, something John had never seen before, and a single tear crawled down her cheek as she locked gazes with her husband, giving him a pleading look. John almost felt sorry for her, but didn’t let it show as he glared back at her in return, clenching his jaw. Moriarty huffed.

“Coward woman!” he exclaimed, snatching the gun from her hand. John immediately closed his eyes tightly as a gunshot echoed through the woods. 

Then, silence.

Was he dead? Surely he was dead. Yes, he was. Had to be. He opened his eyes slowly, not expecting in his wildest dreams to still be in the same position, tied to a chair, sitting in front of his dead wife.

Mary lay on the ground, a bullet wound going straight through her temple, blood pooling around her limp body at a rapid pace. John’s jaw dropped at the sight, unable to process the information. He turned his head to see Sherlock, his head down in defeat, and realized he hadn’t seen what had happened. The doctor then squeezed their fingers together even more tightly, letting him know that he was still alive, earning a sigh of relief from behind him. 

“Don’t you just hate it when you’re forced to kill the mother of your child?” Moriarty droned, looking at the woman he had just killed with mild interest. John’s head shot up at the words.

“Liar,” John breathed. This had to be a joke. He was lying. He had to be lying.

“Hardly,” he answered in a sing-songy tone, “Though I understand your confusion. I was never much into girls.” He grimaced “They’re icky.” 

John’s heart sank to the floor and he tried without success to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat. Everything, he realized, was a lie. He didn’t even have his child anymore. He glared at Moriarty, who chuckled again before walking around and kneeling before Sherlock.

“Looks like your boyfriend ruined the party. I had something special planned for you.” he said with a frown. “Oh well. I guess you’ll have to share.”

And with that, he leaped up and disappeared into the same corner from which mary emerged. It was quiet for a second until John heard the squeak of a metal knob being turned, and saw Moriarty emerge from the darkness once more.

“Well, toodloo!” He beamed at them before quickly exiting the room and descending the steps. 

"Sweet dreams!" He called.

Then they were alone.

“Gas” Sherlock breathed, and John let out a half-choke. So this was how he was going to die. These were his last moments. He looked at down at Mary and then up at the ceiling, clutching onto Sherlock’s fingers and closing his eyes. He could already feel the dizziness and see the spots in front of his eyes. He took a deep breath, feeling his throat dry up.

“Issokay,” Sherlock slurred. John barely heard him as he dipped his chin into his chest, unable to focus on anything. He fought the urge to fall asleep and he could feel his fingers slackening.

“Issnot…” Sherlock slurred again, this time so quietly that John did not hear. His ears were now ringing and he felt his heart slowing. He couldn’t hold his head up anymore and he finally sunk down into sleep, not hearing the heavy footfalls ascending the steps.


	9. Chapter 9

“John? John!”

The slightly raspy baritone voice was the first thing to meet John’s ears as he slowly awoke from his cloudy slumber. He didn’t know where he was or how he got there. He felt the cold, slightly damp, hard ground beneath him, (concrete?), and he saw the tell-tale flashing lights of an ambulance shining through his eyelids, encouraging his already pounding headache. A cold hand was resting on his cheek, the thumb brushing lightly over his cheekbone repeatedly as the voice continued to call his name, quietly now, almost whispering.

“John?” he heard it say again as he opened his eyes, having to use more effort than he should’ve had to. As soon as he saw the sight before him, memories flooded back to him and he instantly remembered where he was and why.

Sherlock was knelt beside him, removing his hand slowly as soon as John had opened his eyes. Lestrade was standing directly behind him with a grave and worried expression on his face. 

As soon as his vision had somewhat cleared he sat up. He was on the sidewalk in the park, the road about 100 metres from where he was. An ambulance was parked at the curb right behind Lestrade’s team of police cars. Sherlock was looking at him with a completely uncharacteristic expression of earnest.

“Can you stand?” the detective asked softly. John answered with a nod that didn’t help his headache in the slightest, and suddenly a long arm was wrapped tightly around his waist and Sherlock was hoisting him up and leading him toward the ambulance, where two medics were waiting. John sat inside as soon as they had reached it and a young woman immediately started checking his vitals. 

“Stop!” Sherlock grumbled as the second medic, a middle aged man with a mustache, started checking him over, “You’ve already done me! Worry about him!”

The man ignored him and Sherlock glared at him as he checked him over for the second time. He finished right before John’s woman had, and when they had both left, Lestrade walked up to the two men.

“Tell me exactly what happened,” The DI said gravely, more to Sherlock than John, who was staring at the pavement below. Sherlock obliged, telling the whole thing, beginning to end, including the video messages, while Lestrade listened intently. When Sherlock was finished, The grey-haired man scrubbed his face and swallowed.

“Christ…” he breathed, looking at John with a mixture of awe and sympathy. John hadn’t lifted his gaze from ground since the story started, and only gave a small grunt in response.

“Look, ah, why don’t you two go home and get some rest?” Lestrade said to Sherlock, who nodded solemnly. Then Lestrade turned and barked, “Caldwell!”

“Yes sir?” answered a short, muscular man who appeared to be in his thirties. He had been talking with some officers a few metres away, and now he turned and approached the DI.

“Take these two home. They’ll direct you.”

The officer nodded and led them to a cruiser.

______________________________________________________________________________

The ride home was completely silent, and when they were dropped off, Sherlock thanked an unknown deity that the lights were out. His parents were in bed. Good.

They both retreated to their rooms without a word and changed into nightclothes. Sherlock had been hoping to discuss past events, but John didn’t seem very willing. Nonetheless, he softly knocked on John’s door and waited. After about a minute of no response, Sherlock spoke.

“John?” He said softly against the wood of the door, hoping to at least receive a ‘go away’. After what seemed like an eternity of silence, Sherlock had begun to turn and head for his room when he heard a rough,

“Come in.”

Sherlock hesitated slightly before slowly turning the knob and entering the room slowly, cracking the door behind him. 

John was sitting on the edge of the bed in his boxers and a t-shirt. His feet were planted firmly on the wood floor and he was leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees and head in his hands. Sherlock looked at him with sad eyes, and could only describe him as small. He had always been a small man, of course, but now he was utterly deflated. John, the brave, noble, kind doctor had shriveled up into this new person. This new, sad, and utterly small person. It was too much for Sherlock to bear, seeing him like this, and he hesitated a while before speaking.

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

A pause. A pause filled with unspoken words of anger and sadness and emotion. It filled the room with tension and Sherlock shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

“Would you like to talk about it?

“No,” came his swift, bitter reply. The detective nodded softly and turned on his heel, hurt. He reached for the door handle and grasped it firmly.

“As you wish” he said quietly.

He was halfway out the door when John spoke.

“I’m a bloody idiot.”

There we go.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, turning to face John and closing the door behind him again. 

“No you’re not,” he answered, matter-of-factly.

“Yes, I am. I bloody am,” John muttered.

Sherlock stepped further into the room, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. He knew one wrong move would set John off, and he was already a time-bomb. He stood awkwardly for a minute before whispering,

“John-”

“What?” He spat bitterly, not taking his face from the floorboards. His face bore an expression that Sherlock rarely saw of John’s face. It was pure, bitter, unadulterated anger. At least, that’s what the average person would see; a person who didn’t know John as well as Sherlock did. Sherlock saw, in John’s face, at that moment something that nobody else could’ve seen: heartbreak. 

“You are not an idiot,” Sherlock stated softly.

“Oh?” asked John rhetorically. Sherlock bent his head and sighed, waiting for explosion. The yelling. The thunderous expression of anger that was John’s MO. He stood and waited.

3.

2.

1.

“Then how didn’t I know? How didn’t I bloody know?”

Much to Sherlock’s surprise, these words weren’t yelled. They were whispered. They were breathed, and they held the watery weight of suppressed sobs. Sherlock looked up and met the sad eyes of his flatmate for a split second before he shot up from the bed and walked over to the wall, backing up against it and slowly sliding down until he sat on the floor, his knees to his chest. Sherlock took a hesitant step forward , trying to stay composed as he witnessed his friend fall apart before his eyes. Despair could hardly dream of describing his heart at that moment. he swallowed the lump that had slowly been forming in his throat and spoke again,

“Nobody could’ve known, John. How could anyone possibly-”

“Well I should’ve!” He cut across Sherlock sharply. His words stung the very air in the room, making the very temperature drop a degree. Sherlock shivered.

“I forgave her.” he continued, quietly now. He slid even further down to the floor, his once-tense body now becoming limp. He let out a shuddered breath while Sherlock held his own, the ticking of the clock becoming ever louder in the cold silence. The detective didn’t dare speak, standing there for what seemed like ages, looking at his friend and feeling helpless.

“My whole family,” John said finally with a shaky voice, breaking the silence a startling Sherlock, “Everything I cared about. Gone. All gone.”

A pause.

“You have me.” Sherlock said quietly. 

John let out a breathy laugh that was anything from humorous. It was a laugh that sent chills down Sherlock’s spine and and cold sadness in his heart. A laugh that made Sherlock want to shatter into a million pieces upon the floor.

“I mean it, John,” he said, louder this time, the hurt apparent in his voice. John swallowed.

“You haven’t lost me and you never will, John. I will always be here.”

He paused, waiting for a reply. When none came, he continued,

“I care very deeply for you, John. I hope you know that. I care more for you than you could ever know.” His voice was shaky now, almost hesitant. He paused, “John, I-”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted quietly. He didn’t look at the detective, keeping his eyes trained on the floor once more.

“Yes, John?”

“Stop it. Just… stop this,” he answered sadly, swallowing loudly and taking a deep breath. Sherlock closed his eyes and frowned, his jaw clenched tightly, knowing that if he slackened it even a little bit, he might actually fall apart. 

“Alright, John.” He said in a small voice that wasn’t his own. He turned on his heel once again to leave, and before he closed the door behind him, he said,

“I’m sorry, John.” and left, retreating to his bedroom and turning out the light before slowly and silently sliding under the covers. Then he listened.

He listened for any noise coming from the friend’s room. A floor creak. The squeaking spring of a mattress. He kept listening for any other sounds, but after twenty minutes, he gave up and rolled over. The moment he closed his eyes and was about to succumb to sleep, his door creaked open.

His eyes snapped open again as he heard the faint slapping of bare feet on wood. The steps stopped behind him, and when he turned over and sat up, there was a dark figure standing at his bedside. It didn’t take him long to deduce who it was.

“John?” he whispered, the word barely forming on his lips before the small man came crashing down on him, burying himself in his arms. Sherlock didn’t speak, but only wrapped his arms around him tightly and laid back down. John’s head was pressed firmly into Sherlock’s chest and muffled sobs were emitted from it. He rubbed the smaller man’s back soothingly.

“John,” he whispered comfortingly, knowing not what else to say. This was his best friend, his John, sobbing in his arms. He tightened his grip on the doctor.

Sherlock was in shock, rocking his friend back and forth on the bed. He kept whispering comforting words into his ear and holding his tightly as ever, terrified that if he let go John would dissolve right there. He held him, and he waited.

Eventually, sobs became shudders, then deep, shaky breaths until John finally lifted his head, looking at the detective in the darkness. By the moonlight creeping through the drapes Sherlock could see his friend's face, his eyes looking directly into his own. Before he even knew what he was doing, the detective reached out his hand and stroked the doctor's cheek. 

It all happened in an instant, then. John let our a soft, shaky breath before leaning down and pressing his lips softly and gently to Sherlock's. He didn't even have time to react before it was over and John laid his head on his chest.

“Thank you,” he croaked as Sherlock lay, stunned, next to him, unable to do anything but continue to hold him and bury his nose in his soft, blonde hair, breathing in the scent that was nothing but John.

And that’s how they fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I've been arguing with myself over this chapter for MONTHS.
> 
> I know John seems a little OOC, but I also think the previous circumstances, (Moriarty, the Mary thing, and what was said in the bedroom) could justify behavior like that.
> 
> I don't know.
> 
> In short, I don't know how I feel about this chapter, but I'd LOVE to know how YOU feel about it...
> 
> SO REVIEW :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm feeling eager today, so here's another chapter for you all :)

John awoke the next morning and instantly felt cold. He opened his eyes and blinked blearily, reaching over to the spot next to him sleepily and finding it empty. Had last night been a dream? Surely not. Couldn’t be. He was in Sherlock’s room, in Sherlock’s bed, so where was Sherlock? 

“Morning, John,” said a silky baritone voice behind him, and John nearly jumped. He turned over and his eyes met those of his flatmate, who was buttoning the last button on a powder blue shirt. His eyes shone with a greater intensity than normal as he gave John a small ghost of a smile and shrugged on a jacket.

“Mummy has made us breakfast. I thought we’d eat and then be off, yes?”

John nodded slowly and Sherlock continued looking at him with those piercing eyes. Where they going to talk about it? Were they going to talk about the thing that had undeniably changed between them last night? John wanted to, but his throat was closed off for some reason, and Sherlock continued to stare at him with those shining eyes. What is he doing? Is he contemplating? Deducing? John didn’t know, but he didn’t want to find out, either. He averted his gaze and Sherlock cleared his throat, dipping his chin and turning to leave.

“I’ll be out in a mo’,” John said to his friend’s back, and Sherlock just nodded, gliding out of the room.

They ate in mostly silence, with Violet attempting conversation now and again. Although they had no idea what had happened last night when they had gone out, both could sense a definite change, particularly in John. The meal was over quickly, and soon they were packing their suitcases into the trunk of a black Mercedes- Which had, with no doubt, been sent by the british government himself- and exchanging goodbyes with Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. Getting into the back seat of the car, they settles down for a long and silent car ride. 

______________________________________________________________________________

The tension was overwhelming. John sat in his chair with novel in hand, and across from him was Sherlock, hands steepled under his chin and his whole body sprawled on the couch. The only sounds that could be heard was the steady breathing of the detective and the occasional turn of a page. This is how most evenings were spent in 221B before John moved out. It should’ve been peaceful. It should’ve been comfortable; familiar. It wasn’t.

John stared at the page, pretending to read the words. he had given up on the book 12 pages ago, and now just pretended to read it, flipping the page every now and again. He had forgotten what it was about, and all he could think about now was last night.

Mary.

Moriarty.

Sherlock.

The kiss.

The kiss. It was barely anything, really; a brush of lips, lingering for half a second and then pulling away. That’s all it was. It was nothing. It was hardly monumental, but at the same time, it was. And, oh, how John wanted to do it again. 

He wanted to grab him, kiss him again; first on the the cheek, softly, gently, and then ghost across his lips and kiss him and kiss him, slowly working his way down the long, beautiful neck-

Sherlock shifted his position on the couch, and John looked over. How long had he wanted this- no, needed this? He knew how long he’d wanted it. From the very first time he’d solved a case with the great Sherlock Holmes he had wanted it; craved it, even, but when had he started needing it? When had Sherlock Holmes become his drug; his addiction? When did he fall in love?

He can’t remember. Perhaps it was always there, buried deep inside him. waiting to burrow it’s way out. Perhaps he’d always loved him. It felt that way. 

God, it felt that way. 

And now, the great detective lay on the couch, his fingers steepled and his eyes closed, breathing in and out in quiet, even breaths. John watched him, mesmerized by him. His eyelids fluttered as if he was dreaming, his eyes moving rapidly in their sockets. Mind palace. Every so often his hand would jerk ever so slightly, or the corner of his mouth would twitch, then stillness again. The lamplight cast shadows over his structured face, making him look almost ghost-like. He was beautiful in every sense of the word.

The doctor’s gaze lingered for a few moments before tearing away. Sherlock would wake up in a minute or two and demand tea, and John would get it for him after coaxing him to say “please”, and everything would be normal. Except it wasn’t. It wasn’t normal at all.

Part of him wanted to forget what happened; cast it away, out of his mind and never think about it again. They needn’t talk about it, never mention it again. Part of him really wanted to do that, but he knew that he couldn’t. He couldn’t, because he had kissed him. He had kissed Sherlock Holmes, and he didn’t think he could ever forget that. Ever. 

He looked at the clock. 8:16 PM. Still early. He looked back over at Sherlock and nearly jumped.

“Christ” John gasped as he met Sherlock’s piercing grey stare for the second time that day. When had he woken up? Sherlock continued his stare and John closed his eyes, dipping his chin. 

“When did you wake up?” he asked as casually as he could. The detective’s eyes were burning holes in his brain, and he thankfully turned his gaze to the ceiling before answering.

“Approximately one minute and seventeen seconds ago,” he replied matter-of-factly. John suppressed an eye roll and set down his book.

“Tea?” John asked.

“Please,” Sherlock replied, and John quietly got up to put the kettle on. When he returned three minutes later with two mugs of tea, Sherlock hadn’t moved an inch. He set the tea down on the coffee table and then sat back down in his chair. He took a sip.

Silence. The silence was overbearing. John felt like he was going to choke with every sip of tea he took. Was this really all because of a peck on the lips?

No.

No, it wasn’t.

It was far more than that.

They both spoke at once.

“Too much sugar, John-”  
“Jesus, Sherlock, are we going to talk about this?”

The detective looked stunned, and John immediately regretted shouting at him. Sherlock stared at him again- that shining, piercing stare- and then answered,

“Talk about what?”

He said it in complete Sherlockian nonchalance that made John want to slam his cup down. He sighed and scrubbed his face. He should’ve known this wouldn’t be easy.

“You know very well what, Sherlock.” 

It was John’s turn to stare now, and Sherlock’s turn to avert his gaze. He resumed looking at the ceiling and whispered,

“No, I don’t think I do.”

“Sherlock for God’s sake!” John spat angrily, pinching the bridge of his nose and sinking into his seat. He looked up at Sherlock again, who was now looking at him with a stony expression.

“If I recall correctly,” he said in quietly, not taking his gaze from John’s eyes, “You were the one who decided to climb in bed with me in the middle of the night, not the other way 'round.”

John swallowed. He was right. It was him, all him. If anything, he should be explaining himself to Sherlock. He sighed, resting his head on the back of the chair and looking at Sherlock apologetically.

“Look, Sherlock-”

“John,” Sherlock cut across him, closing his eyes and sighing, “You were upset. It’s fine. We can forget all about it-”

“Sherlock,” It was John’s turn to interrupt. He couldn’t bear for Sherlock to say another word. His voice was uncharacteristically soft, almost like a child, and his tone sounded defeated. All in all, he sounded sad, and John couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t listen to it any longer, and it was because, he realized, he knew exactly why he was sad. Perhaps, he even thought, he had always known. he had known since Magnussen. He had known since his wedding night. He had always known, but he had only just realized it.

He looked into Sherlock’s eyes and he knew, and he was fairly sure that Sherlock did too.

“Sherlock,” he repeated, softly this time, “I don’t want to forget about it.”

His eyes. Oh, God, his eyes. The eyes that were usually do devoid of emotion, the eyes that were always so cold, were now so full of emotion that John wanted to cry. Was this really Sherlock Holmes? Was this really the man he’d known for years? It couldn’t be, but it was. It was, and it was real, and that’s the most heartbreaking thing about it. 

John got up from his chair and walked to the end of the couch, Sherlock’s eyes following him the whole time. 

“Come here,” he said, no louder than a whisper. Sherlock just stared in awe, perhaps trying to figure out just what the hell John was planning on doing. He just stared into John’s eyes, his cold stare trying very hard to be present. John swallowed.

“Sherlock, please,” he said soothingly, “come here.”

This time, after a second’s debate, he obeyed. He silently swung his legs off the couch and stood up stiffly. He took a step, then another, until he was just a foot away from the doctor. Before he could speak again, he was being pulled into a hug.

John’s arms wrapped around his waist and his head rested on his shoulder. After a few second’s hesitation, Sherlock tentatively hugged back. It was more than a bit awkward, but John didn’t care.

“I love you,” he said softly, holding his even more tightly as the man in his arms began to tremble. “I love you so much, Sherlock, and I’m so sorry.”

The detective’s quaking hands grasped the smaller man’s jumper tightly in his fists as the words left John’s mouth, and they his knuckles turned white as a kiss met his lower jaw.

The lips against his skin felt electric, and he clung to his doctor for dear life as they continued along his cheek, brushing over his left cheekbone and finally meeting his eager lips. 

It was miraculous that his knees didn't give out as he tentatively kissed him back, following his motions with those of his own. He released his iron grip on John's poor jumper and immediately moved his hands to the sides of John's head, entwining his fingers in John's soft blonde hair and pulling his lips even closer to his own. This earned a smile from John, who opened his mouth slightly, which, in turn, earned a small gasp from Sherlock before he slowly slid his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, causing the detective to release a soft moan. John smiled once again, his lips never leaving his love's as he moved one hand to rest on Sherlock's bony hip and the other on the back of his head, entwining with his curls. They stayed like this for a moment longer until, finally, after what seemed like hours- but was really only 7.85 seconds, Sherlock would later tell him- they pulled away, breathing heavily.

They both held a slightly dazed expression, and Sherlock's pupils were blown wide, his cheeks flushed scarlet. He'd stopped trembling and was now standing stock still, still processing what had just happened. John smiled at him, amused, and glanced over at the clock- 8:49

He wasn't sure why he said it; maybe because he had just snogged Sherlock and was a bit dazed, maybe it was because he didn't have anything else to say. He doesn't know for sure. All he knows is at almost nine-o-clock on a Monday, he asked the man he loved,

"Dinner?"

And for some perplexing reason, he replied with,

"Starving."

Thank God Angelo's is open until ten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the God of cheesy endings and that's why we love it :P
> 
> Epilogue to come!
> 
> (Probably in like half an hour because why the hell not?)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys, here it is! Last chapter!

John didn't go to Mary's funeral. Sherlock hadn't argued with him on it, an only nodded silently when John told him his position on the matter.

Mary was a chapter of his life that he wanted desperately to forget. He had loved her; even as he loved Sherlock, he'd loved her, and her betrayal broke his heart. He didn't want to go to her funeral and be reminded of her face as she pointed a gun between his eyes. He didn't want to remember the way she cried, the way she crumpled in a heap on the floor, her bleach blonde hair dyed red by her own blood. He was tortured by this vision too much at night, when his body betrayed him to sleep and vivid nightmares filled his head.

The dreams are worse than the reality. They permeate his psyche; more vivid, even more real than reality. 

Most of the time, the dream happens exactly how it happened that night. Moriarty shoots her, she falls in a heap, blood everywhere. Sometimes, though, she shoots Sherlock, and Sherlock is on the floor, and John hates it when it happens like that. It's worse when I happens like that. Moriarty will laugh, his black, beady eyes shining, and John will wake up drenched in a cold sweat with arms surrounding him and a soothing voice in his ear telling him it's all alright. John never believes him. John doesn't think it'll ever be alright, but he puts his head into Sherlock's chest anyway, breathing in and believing he'll never fall asleep again. He always does. Always, in Sherlock's arms. 

He wishes that Sherlock didn't have to do this every night. He wishes that he didn't have to leave the room every time he hears a baby cry. He wishes it would all be normal.

It's morning now. The light is slowly peeking through the curtains and John breathes in. Sherlock is asleep behind him, his back turned, his breathing heavy and even. John rolls over and scoots close to him, wrapping his arm around his torso and resting his head on the crook of his neck. Sherlock mumbles something, half asleep, and turns his head a few degrees so John can place a delicate kiss on the corner of his mouth. Sherlock nuzzles his head closer and lays his hand over John's, contented.

Mary's funeral is in a few hours, but John doesn't care. Not now. He sighs and lays his head back in Sherlock's neck and Sherlock squeezes his hand.

"She loved you, you know," he whispers softly, rubbing small circles into the back of John's hand soothingly.

"I know, Sherlock. I know she did."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank my friend, Anna, because she contributed to this story by a small fraction. She actually came up with the pirate ship idea when I asked her where they should meet Moriarty. Needless to say, I could've kissed her! :)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and there'll be more from me soon!  
> If anybody would like to follow me on Tumblr, my URL is the same as my pseud, and my brand new fanart blog is so-change-able.tumblr.com
> 
> Thanks again and have a lovely day!


End file.
